Chapter II

Rumblings of jehad

Dalbandin (Baluchistan) 2^nd October

The Cobras finally returned. Too low and too fast, thought Air Commodore Sajjad as he watched the swirls of dust rising up from the ground—there were still ugly holes in the runway. Visibility had been further reduced by the fast setting sun and Sajjad began jogging over to the three choppers. The army men already gathered there—officers and soldiers—were busy removing the bodies. The dying whines of the Cobras marked the stony silence and barely suppressed rage of the men as they completed the grisly task. The Air Commodore looked at the dead soldiers—piled one on top of the other in a pool of their own blood—and he grit his teeth, “Bastards!”

The army had taken charge of the Samungli air base since the time Lt. General Khattak had stormed into his office after the initial attacks. Sajjad had only been told that they were expecting a special civilian flight from Islamabad carrying important personnel and materials. For that reason a battalion of heavily armed soldiers had taken up positions in and around the large base—not that Sajjad had a problem with the army. And he had always enjoyed working with the army aviators, but the manner in which he was cast aside was not good for inter-service relations.

The army aviators and their Cobra gunships had come into action almost immediately. A team of between thirty or fifty soldiers led by high-ranking officers had taken off that afternoon in response to an emergency—the civilian airliner while on its way to Samungli had crashed into the mountains of the Suleiman Range. Army units from Zhob and Quetta had been rushed there to secure the crash site but the 41 Div GOC, Major-General Nusrat, was flown there to take charge of the operations. At that time Sajjad had not known how serious the matter and it was only later when the return of the Cobras was reported that he learnt of the firefight with the jehadis.

The brass were waiting beneath the terminal of the airfield. Lt. General Khattak peered down at one of the stretchers and saw the very calm—and very dead—face of Major-General Nusrat.

“They’ve been shot at close range,” Sajjad stared grimly at Khattak.

“It was an ambush,” Brigadier Qadir said stoically. Nusrat’s deputy had an arrogant look on his unshaven face as he shifted uncomfortably behind Khattak.

“They caught us unawares,” Khattak turned Sajjad into the terminal building. “When the airliner went down the enemy were the first on the scene. They were familiar with the area…numerous tunnels and caves have been built in that range by the local tribes, which these people used effectively…if only we had come to know earlier we could’ve pre-empted this firefight.”

The Corps Commander had been speaking in a whispered tone, out of respect for the dead, or so Sajjad imagined. The Air Commodore was not high enough in the chain of command, and not in the right service, to know more about General Khattak’s background. If he had known, and if the light had been better, Sajjad would have understood that the expression on Khattak’s face indicated anything but a state of mourning. The Corps Commander was relieved that his hastily drawn up plan had produced good results.

“Sir?” Qadir stepped closer to his boss. “Should we wait a few hours before sending the convoy through the city?”

“No. Such a big secret cannot be kept…in fact Islamabad will allow the media to cover the funerals tomorrow…after the foreign office has issued a statement. But before that let me be clear,” Khattak was now looking at the airman. “There are to be no off-the-record leaks to the media. There are only so many of your men and mine who know about this, so let no one think he can get away with making leaks. I will not tolerate it!”

“Yes sir!” Sajjad stiffened in salute and quietly walked away.

As the two army men watched the portly Sajjad walk up to the control tower, Brigadier Qadir stifled a laugh. “He got the message!”

“Now only Kamran has to act out his part with finesse,” remarked Khattak looking up at the darkening sky. “The evening prayer would have begun at Dalbandin.”

Situated less than three hundred kilometers west of Quetta, and on the highway to Iran, Dalbandin was originally a village with an airstrip that served as a satellite to the main base at Samungli. That was before the Arabs discovered the place. Baluchistan is home to the Houbara Bustard—considered a delicacy and also an aphrodisiac—among Arab dignitaries. Since the early eighties sundry Sheikhs, Ambassadors, and Ministers started coming over in droves to hunt this poor bird with their falcons.

These dignitaries transformed the face of Dalbandin—now a small town of five thousand souls—helping in building a civilian airport and a totally out-of-place marble mosque with towering minarets. This evening it seemed as if a great portion of those five thousand souls had gathered in the cool interiors of the mosque—listening attentively as the muezzin lectured them on being loyal to their country and religion in these trying times.

“Death to the kafirs!” screamed a young man standing just below the muezzin’s pulpit.

“Death! Death!” the cries of other youngsters echoed around him.

“Send those infidels to the fire of hell!” the young man got louder and looked wild-eyed at the crowd.

“To hell! To hell!” his cohorts echoed the shrill call.

Now the bearded old muezzin stepped forward to calm them down. Raising his hands skywards he called out, “Brothers this crisis is a test of our faith in the one true God! Hold true to your faith and be prepared to make any sacrifice for the glory of Islam!”

As the crowd roared its approval another bearded figure could be seen near the muezzin. “Maulana Shamas, a proven leader of the mujahideen should address the awaam and tell us what steps we can take in fighting the vile kafirs!”

The hush that fell over the crowd indicated the awe surrounding the Maulana’s name. Shamas was the Punjabi pronunciation of the Farsi name Shams—the Maualana was born in a family of farmers at Faisalabad, the heart of Pakistani Punjab, but had been indoctrinated into the faith at an early age.

“I begin by saluting Allah the merciful…”

The prematurely retired Major Kamran ran his fingers through his thick mane. One hour on his knees had proven to be a tiring experience. Kamran was however heartened by the trust being now placed in him—a true namaazi he may not have been but ambitious he certainly was.

“O you Gazis of Islam,” Shamas had raised the tone of his voice. “The Kafirs are destroying your land…bombing cities and slaughtering the women and children of Muslims! Your brothers in the army will resist the enemy if he dares to enter into our land! Insh’allah! “

“Insh’allah!” the crowd roared back approvingly. Unlike other Maulanas, Shamas had been active in the Afghan jihad as a young mujahid, fighting the Russian tanks and helicopters with his AK-47. As he grew older the Pakistanis used his early education of the Holy Quran and his powerful oratory to recruit young Punjabis and Pathans for the jihad in J&K. The Punjabi Maulana had a large base among the Afghan refugee population in Baluchistan—especially in Dalbandin.

Dalbandin’s existence as a pleasure resort for the Arab elite ended in 2001. That same year, following an American ultimatum, Pakistan became the base for operations against the Taliban and Al Qaeda in Afghanistan. Dalbandin’s airport now stopped accepting civilian flights and was converted into a purely military facility. Situated less than fifty kilometers south of the Afghan border it was the ideal base for launching air strikes and Special Forces operations into Taliban country.

These operations however only became effective when the Americans stopped listening to the Pakistanis and opened contacts with the Northern Alliance, Afghanistan’s only national fighting force. Northern Alliance operations swept the Taliban out of the Afghan cities and towns and this fast receding flood left behind the stranded wrecks of Pakistani imperialism—officers and men of the Pakistan Army trapped in the stronghold of Kunduz. After much begging and pleading the Pakistanis were allowed to airlift these men to safety—among the more valued passengers had been Major Kamran and the then Colonel Qadir.

“It is not enough to defend our own homes!” shouted the Maulana. “We must strike the enemy in his own land. As our people are getting killed so must his people be killed. As our cities our bombed, well then, so must his cities be bombed!”

“Allah-u-Akbar!” Kamran stood up and shouted.

“Allah-u-Akbar!” roared the crowd.

Kamran had retired prematurely from the army publicly citing disillusionment with the Army Chief’s Afghan policy. But privately the Major was assigned to revive the Taliban and coordinate their operations in Afghanistan. In that capacity he had been living in Dalbandin—a town where Afghan refugees living in camps outnumbered the five thousand local Baloch inhabitants.

“Brothers! Now we have the weapon…the ultimate weapon to strike fear in the hearts of the infidels!” Maulana Shamas raised his fist in the air. “We will strike their cities and engulf them with flames…the flames of hell. The infidels will die and will again burn in the fires of hell! Allah-u-Akbar!”

“Allah-u-Akbar!” the crowd was on its feet.

Chengdu (Western China) 3^rd October

“All our scientists and officials perished in the crash,” Vice-Admiral Bhatti put the phone down. “The shells were undamaged in the pressurized containers…now they have been secured.”

“Why did they take this civilian flight?” asked General Mi.

“We assumed that the Indians wouldn’t shoot it down,” KK Bhatti stood up. “Besides all the military airfields around the capital had been attacked and damaged by then.”

“And why did it take so long to organize a rescue mission?”

“The brigade at Zhob took time to send a respectable force along the mountain roads. And it took time to fly in reinforcements with Major-General Nusrat from Samungli.”

The Vice-Admiral had been in much better spirits this morning. Firstly his ADC and his luggage had been flown in to allow him a refreshing bath and a change of clothing. Next he had treated himself to a short but welcome nap before being woken for a rich breakfast—nothing Chinese. But the news from his homeland was changing all that.

“How did the lightly armed tribesmen get there in their pick-up trucks?” Lt. General Wu looked at him. “Were they aware of the cargo? Is that why they prepared an ambush for the Pakistani forces?”

Bhatti had no answer for that. But knowing his brother-in-law and the 12 Corps Commander it was quite obvious that they had planned this together. That explained why it had taken so long for the rescue operation to be launched.

“The Quetta Corps Commander is your old friend from Gilgit,” General Mi spoke in Mandarin. “He was commanding a brigade there in 1997…”

“While I was in the Xinjiang Military District,” remembered Lt. General Wu. “He is a capable officer. But the risk of the Uighur rebels getting possession of the shells is too great! Our sources know that they had taken shelter with the same tribe, which was involved in the fight.”

“That is a disturbing thought,” General Mi frowned as he lit a cigar. “We cannot trust these darkies. They have a knack of taking unconventional actions and of going back on their word. For the moment we must not alarm them with this question of our rebels…there is too much at stake for us in Pakistan.”

“What does the Army Chief say with regard to the communication silo?” the stocky General switched back to English. “How was it hit?”

“Sir the Indians hit the Pindi silo with earth-penetrating munitions,” explained Bhatti.

“The silos we built were immune to such strikes!” General Mi exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke.

“Sir they tried the concept of making sequential attacks on the same spot,” the Vice-Admiral leaned forward. “The first bomb penetrates say ten meters into the earth and explodes; the next bomb is aimed at the same spot and it penetrates further into the earth; the third bomb goes deeper and so on until the silo walls are breached.”

“With conventional bombs?” scoffed Wu. “Such hardened walls would never fracture!”

“Well sir I can’t explain that,” confessed the Vice-Admiral.

“I see the sinister hand of America in all this,” nodded Mi as he turned to look at the other two gentlemen. “Satellite information on the silos and even the logistics support for carrying out the pre-emptive strike has been provided by them.”

The truth was that India never had any intention of launching a pre-emptive nuclear attack—and both the Chinese and the Pakistanis knew that. The only way the Indians would have gone nuclear was if their cities or their forces were first attacked with such weapons—and this had become impossible with the American grip on Pakistan. They had added to the failsafe triggers and elaborate launch codes with the separate storage of the nuclear core from the trigger; the separate storage of delivery systems; and even the separate storage of those missiles and their unstable fuels.

These precautions were totally absent in the nuclear artillery shells that China had supplied to its ally. Under the watchful eye of the 2 Corps Commander in Multan, these were ready-to-use and fire-at-will weapons. These had provoked the Indians into launching pre-emptive attacks.

“What about the radiation at Multan?” asked the CMAC Commander. “Were the devices there kept in the same containers? Or had they been distributed among different units?”

“Two containers were assigned to the 2 Strike Corps at Multan,” explained Bhatti. “These were hit on the first night of the strikes. Direct hits on the storage area has destroyed them…”

“What has been done for the area?”

“I’m afraid that we could not go into those details at once,” said KK. “But you know what the possibilities are. Radiation over a vast area or even radiation clouds floating across the plains! Evacuating the population of that region is not possible at this time.”

“They must be told not to use this for propaganda purposes,” General Mi switched back to Mandarin.

“Sir.”

“Otherwise the Indian claims will be shown to be correct. This incident should be kept quiet…we must assist them in treating people in that area. If of course their claims are correct!”

“It is true sir,” sighed Wu. “They are very capable of lying. I must confess that after the incident with the LNG tanker I feared that the devices had been distributed to their religious-military units.”

The other possibility was that the Pakistan Army Chief was keeping his cards close to his chest. Not revealing information until the overall picture was clear made sense—after all he would need all the bargaining tools he could get once the fighting died down. But die down it would—that much was clear even to the gentlemen in faraway Chengdu.

“Let us take a break while the material pertaining to the Indian Army’s movements is prepared,” Lt. General Wu smiled at KK Bhatti.

His senior was already shuffling towards the terrace. While the Vice-Admiral made his way outside, the General lit his second cigar and sat down slowly on the chair. Very slowly—after all he was 72 years old. Bhatti’s equal in rank, Lt. General Wu, was almost 65.

“Have you spoken with your family?” the old man asked Bhatti.

“My brother-in-law assured me that they are safe.”

“Children?”

“A son and a daughter,” said Bhatti quietly as they gazed out at the mid-morning haze. “Both studying in the UK.”

“Ah! I have grandchildren studying in Beijing,” Mi smiled briefly. “Their father lives there…owns a private company.”

The senior most Generals of the PLA were all grandfathers in their seventies. Most of them had also served in a political and administrative position at some point in their careers. The Chinese loved to claim that their armed forces were under the firm control of the communist party—in fact the military and political arms of Chinese society were completely enmeshed together.

While Pakistani brass didn’t have such long careers—life didn’t exactly slow down for them. They were simply re-employed to head public corporations, run ministries and departments, and administer provinces. The lower ranks and officers didn’t fade away into retirement either—they were used to provide leadership and instill discipline into the mujahideen units. In Pakistan all the elements of power and influence were enmeshed within the stifling embrace of the omnipotent military.

General Mi Liang kept Vice-Admiral Bhatti company for an hour while Lt. General Wu Jiangao prepared a presentation for those two men. The head of the Chengdu Military Area Command was with his subordinates and staff officers, watching a slide in the projection room.

“How did these Indians concentrate their forces without anyone finding out?” asked Wu. The previous slide had depicted the peacetime location of military forces in the Indian continent—the current slide was a satellite image depicting unusually high activity emanating from bases concentrated in northwestern India.

“We must keep a watch on the western media,” suggested his deputy, Major-General Hang Dazhou. “If they are in league with India then our response must be made with great deliberation and caution.”

“From what I’ve seen that is unlikely,” scoffed Wu. “At any rate the pullout of their forces has brought our goal closer to realization. Next slide!”

“Sir this depicts the positioning of naval forces at Mumbai,” the young Major said from the shadows as he traced the said coastline with his pointer. “As in the case of the land forces in the disputed eastern frontier there are no movements more than a day after their air force opened the conflict.”

“General Wu, if their land forces are mobilizing fast in Kaasmeer, and their navy is staying put then the Americans are definitely in the game,” Dazhou whispered to his superior. “But as you suggested this does not make sense.”

“Why would they encourage instability in the region? And why put their own forces at such risk?” the head of the CMAC stood up. “No this is India’s own game and they hope that the west will soon join in on their side.

“Sir we must propose that our forces initiate a conventional mobilization until Beijing decides on the policy to take,” Major-General Hong Feizi said for the first time. He was the head of the Tibet Military District, a sub-command of Chengdu, and had flown in a day earlier. “We should not deviate from the understanding we developed with our allies…even though they acted prematurely and showed their hand with inadequate preparation.”

“A conventional response is what the Indians expect,” Dazhou shook his head. “We must assume that they have planned to tackle a conventional mobilization by us. They may even have alerted their nuclear weapons posture!” He and Feizi had stood up along with their superior officer. “When the enemy expects a conventional response we must hit him by covert methods…if Major-General Nanqi were here he would suggest the same.”

The head of the Yunnan Military District, another sub-command of Chengdu, was away at Shanghai. While his command did not border India, contacts with elements in neighboring Myanmar’s unstable northern regions, gave him the potential for interfering in India’s northeast.

“During his tenure with the RRF Nanqi had written a paper on unconventional warfare,” Wu Jiangao looked at Feizi. “I trust you have read it?”

“Yes sir,” replied Feizi, slightly disappointed that his superior seemed to be veering towards the other view. He didn’t want his colleague in Yunnan to walk away with all the glory. “Sir with respect; if we initiate covert operations deep within Indian Territory it will further destabilize the situation. It is true that the Indians would be prepared to counter our mobilization but there is no risk to our forces; while at the same time we would be able to pressurize the world and exhibit our support to the Pakistan Army.”

“By the same token an overt posture would drive India into the arms of other powers,” countered Dazhou. “And it will be difficult to disengage from a mobilization…especially if the Indians do not back down. With covert operations, which are possible with minimal investment of money and manpower, we have plausible deniability.”

“But these operations will involve a third country,” Feizi was now getting irritated. “Whether Myanmar or Bangladesh; the threat of destabilization is thus even greater with these methods!”

“But…”

“Feizi is correct,” Lt. General Wu held up his hand. “Besides Beijing will never sanction such a posture at this stage…a conventional response is more to their line of thinking. But an all-out mobilization must only be carried out after the situation is clear.”

“Continuing with what we have seen here,” added Feizi. “If the Indians are only interested in seizing Kaasmeer then we must join the world in restricting their seizure of land. The Karakorum highway has to be preserved at all costs!”

“Yes,” nodded Wu. “A combination of a people’s war in that region, the world’s economic pressure, and our military posture will serve to contain the Indians. The Indian people are already exulting over the achievements of their air force…very immature!”

“So this is what we recommend to the General and the Pakistani?” asked a frowning and obviously disappointed Major-General Dazhou.

“We shall describe both options with all the points that have been discussed,” Wu nodded to the Major at the door. “But neither man will accept the uncertainties of unconventional warfare. The Pakistani in particular will press for help in Kaasmeer only!”

All three men started laughing.

Quetta (Baluchistan) 3^rd October

Ayesha watched the young couple with an indulgent smile. She just loved the way they looked at each other, the way they talked, and their emotion-soaked exchanges with the elders in that household—it was all so heart-warming! Such times had always been rare in her marriage with Najaf, sighed Ayesha as she glanced at the other women. All were staring wonder-eyed at the large-screen television in the ground floor living room—the afternoon reruns of the ever-popular Indian soaps were on.

The spell was broken when the forced emotions onscreen quickly morphed into the glowing, happy faces of slick advertising. The ladies sighed and leaned back, smiling at their imperious hostess.

“Please take some food all of you!” Mrs. Khattak reached forward for a leg of chicken. “Ayesha you too…you’re so thin that no one takes you for a mother!”

Four other healthy ladies followed her example and began gorging on sundry legs and loins. “But Ma’am mash’allah you’re in very good shape,” cooed Mrs. Irani from the far end of the sofa. The two other ladies beside her and the three on the sofa opposite beamed and nodded approvingly.

“Well all it takes is regular walking,” Begum Khattak, appropriately enough, sat alone at their head. “None of that fancy Yoga that Malini does to look young!”

The others tittered at that remark—Malini was one of the characters in the Indian soap. “But you even look younger than the rest of us,” insisted Mrs. Irani after stripping the chicken leg to the bone. Her husband was a heart surgeon and they were one of the few Parsi families in Quetta.

A collective hush escaped their lips as the antics of the Indian business family beamed once again into the plush living room. “Just look at Aarti’s necklace!” Saira whispered to Ayesha. “I’ll get one made exactly like this in Karachi.” Her husband was at that time in faraway Khuzdar, busy guarding the all-important cargo taken from the crash site.

The two other ladies that made up the group were Mrs. Jaffri and Mrs. Maqdoomi—the latter’s husband was at home waiting to see what gains he could make in this new situation. With so much movement of men and materials taking place Maqdoomi’s fleet of trucks would always be employed; especially when his close friend was the Corps Commander.

“That’s a lovely color!” the rotund and red-cheeked Mrs. Jaffri said out loud. It was a blue chiffon sari worn by the young daughter-in-law who was scheming to gain control of the family business—but only to teach a lesson to her wayward husband. The ladies held their breath as the husband stared angrily at his clever wife. The soap ended there and the credits began rolling over the frozen frame.

“They look so slim and trim!” continued Mrs. Jaffri. “My husband refused to let me go out wearing a sari but you people in the cantt are so lucky!”

The three civilians had dressed in the more comfortable shalwar-kameez, which unfortunately made them look drab and unkempt. The army wives looked elegant in their saris. “IG saab is right,” Mrs. Khattak looked at her. “You don’t know what these people are capable of! They will roam through the streets like mad dogs looking for any hint of Indian influence…their first target will be the cable TV offices. Thank God they shut these Indian channels on their own!”

The cable operators in Quetta had seen the storm of fanatics gathering in the mosques and had pre-empted them by closing access to all but the staid and stiff Pakistani channels. That was the reason these ladies had been invited to watch their daily staple of Indian TV at the Corps Commander’s residence. They hadn’t missed seeing these particular episodes, which had run on Thursday night, but they would be back tomorrow for Monday night’s fare. A meeting like this was more necessary for building morale among these women and their families.

As Mrs. Khattak switched to the news Ayesha looked out at the garden and noticed someone hunching near the window. A few minutes passed and the figure straightened and quickly moved away. It was the Baloch gardener from her area…what was he doing? Ayesha kept her eyes on him as he moved through the shadows of the apple grove. Must have been called to work here, she thought and turned her attention to the manly-looking woman reading the official news.

“Indian jets continued their indiscriminate bombing campaign, killing innocent men, women, and children across Pakistan. Their attacks on military positions were however beaten back and the brave pilots of the Fiza’ya took to the air to turn the intruders out of Pakistani airspace. In deep frustration the Indian pilots dropped their bombs on undefended cities and towns and ran away,” the lady paused to shuffle some papers and then looked up again. There was a grim expression on her face and a death-like coldness in those eyes—made more ominous by the black dupatta covering her head and shoulders.

“The Indian Army made numerous attempts to enter Pakistani territory but were defeated and driven back with loss each time. The brave Pakistani forces have been mobilized and deployed to defend the border and the mujahideen are ready to make attacks into enemy territory,” she paused again—this time looking smug and self-assured. “The President has assured the people that the musalla afwaaj will soon give a befitting reply to the Indian attack. Pakistan paindabad!”

A video showing the military parade on the annual Pakistan Day began playing to the tune of the National Anthem. Mrs. Khattak pressed the mute button.

“They’re hiding all the bad news,” remarked Saira. “Sukkur barrage is gone along with the bridges. Traffic is stranded all along the highway.”

“Sargodha is totally destroyed ma’am,” Mrs. Maqdoomi leaned forward and whispered. “We got to know from our family friends in Lahore…their son’s friend was serving in the air base.”

The bonhomie and good mood had been destroyed by all this bad news and there was a gloomy, downcast look on all faces. Ayesha thought of telling them about Multan—Najaf’s father had called them yesterday afternoon. He had talked for an hour on the terror the people felt when large number of jets roared over the city in the dead of night. Of how the people ran out on rooftops and into the street but saw nothing in the darkness except occasional flashes in the distance. Or how they drove out towards the cantonment area that morning to check the immense damage and ended up blocking the roads for the military convoys.

The room fell silent as the Corps Commander’s wife stood up and went towards the corner shelf behind her. She picked up a silver bell and jingled it—the sound made the ladies jump. An old servant answered the call and Mrs. Khattak waved out at the numerous plates littered with bones, “Pick up all this! And bring the tea at five o’clock.”

Ayesha was dying to tell them about Multan and make her presence felt in the conversation but Mrs. Khattak’s tone of voice blew away her eagerness. “You people have made it clear that shutting out the satellite channels was the best thing for us. I mean if we are so scared and disheartened can you imagine what would’ve happened to the commoners?” she demanded to know. “These Indian and western channels are full of bad news and we have to protect our people from the truth! We have to show them that not only are our forces undamaged from these attacks but that they are fighting back and are ready to make counter-attacks!”

The muted official channel showed clips of sullen and suspicious soldiers, some of them with beards, crowded into freshly dug bunkers as the visiting generals shook hands with the local commanders. Ayesha remembered the clip from three years back during the India-Pakistan military standoff at the borders—she had been in college then. Back then the build-up had come at a steady pace. She didn’t know much about military matters but the sort of readiness being portrayed in these clips was simply not possible; and if the government felt compelled to recycle old clips to hearten the people then how bad was the real situation?

“The major problem has been our police and the civil administration,” Mrs. Khattak remarked scornfully. “So incompetent!”

“Yes ma’am,” Ayesha took a deep breath and quickly chipped in. “My father-in-law told us that in Multan there was no sign of the police and no action was taken by the electricity department. The people on their own switched off all lights! The local officials only came out in the morning when it was all over.”

“Is Najaf’s family all right?”

“Yes ma’am,” smiled Ayesha. “The Indian jets flew over the city but didn’t drop any bombs there.”

Her smile vanished when she saw the frosty look on Begum Khattak’s face. Ayesha had inadvertently praised the enemy—watching their entertaining films and serials was all right but describing them as noble or humane, even in private conversations, was out of the question. Fortunately the Begum let that pass with a toss of her head and remarked, “Well let me tell you that we may not have much to worry about. Masood was telling me this morning that GHQ has let everyone know that our quick response has stunned the Indians. They are not moving their forces to the border…instead they seem to be focusing on Azad Kashmir.”

“He keeps telling me that they don’t have the stomach to occupy Pakistani lands,” chimed in Mrs. Maqdoomi. “And they’re extremely clever, like Chankia, and want to avert international hostility. Hence the focus on Kashmir, where they have legal claims.”

Chanakya, or Chankia as the Pakistanis pronounced the name, was an ancient Indian philosopher-cum-administrator who helped create a massive empire spanning the length and breadth of the sub-continent. He also wrote a lengthy treatise on war and administration, and for Pakistanis, epitomizes Indian cunning. The fact, that most of Chanakya’s education and political experience was gained in areas now in modern Pakistan, is conveniently brushed off.

“Still we can’t afford to do nothing,” Mrs. Khattak reminded them. “The situation here is bad enough. You know these Sardars and their supporters haven’t turned up for the special session?”

“You mean the assembly?” asked Saira.

“Yes. He and the Governor had decided that the assembly should convene and condemn the Indian aggression. Then the members were to renew their belief in and commitment to the ideology of Pakistan.”

“They can still do that!”

“Not when a large number of members are absent from the house,” the Begum shook her head. “That would send exactly the opposite message…that these Sardars are preparing to revolt. So now they are bent on getting those people to Quetta…by force if necessary.”

“Break it down!” at that command shalwar-clad legs kicked open the wooden door, splitting it in two and shattering the profuse carvings to pieces. Three men stormed inside and fired AK-47 bursts into the ceiling while shouting praise to their God.

“Allah-u-Akbar!”

“Seize these dogs,” the same voice commanded them. Retired Subedar Sher Mohammed glowered at the two men and one woman cowering down behind the sofa. Pieces of plaster dropped down like rain from the shot up ceiling as the three were pulled to their feet. “Where’s your master?” Sher Mohammed stroked his beard.

“He’s gone!” the older man folded his hands. “They’ve all gone.”

A rough hand whipped out in a blur and flew across the old man’s face. He fell to the floor in a heap whimpering piteously from the shock. And on cue the others caught hold of the younger man, threw him against the wall, and began kicking and punching him as he lay dazed on the carpet. The woman recoiled in horror, covering her mouth with her dupatta and folding her arms across her chest—she was old—but not old enough.

Sher Mohammed sized her up in one quick glance and stepped forward. She cried incoherently as he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to his chest. “Aaagh!” the woman raked her fingernails across his cheek and plucked out puffs of hennaed hair. The old soldier angrily pushed her through to the bedroom and threw her on the bed.

“Where is he?” the others continued beating the two men.

“Khuda Kasam the Nawab saab is not here!” wailed the older man. “They all left a week ago.”

“Lying bastard!”

Feet and fists rained down once again, their moans drowned out by a high-pitched scream from the woman inside. Suddenly another group of shalwar-clad men stormed inside.

“I told you to bring these dogs outside!” shouted Major Najaf Khan as he pulled the first three men away from their victims. “Who else is here?”

“Saab ji!” a clean-shaven young man named Ali nodded at the half-open door.

Najaf and Ali pushed through the door and caught Sher Mohammed on top of the old maid. “She was trying to escape,” the Subedar pulled her up with one hand. “Through the window…I caught her just in time!”

He used his other hand to hold his shalwar in place. Najaf could see a damp spot on the brown cloth. “Bring them down,” he said quietly, feeling his cheeks burn with shame. “Are you hurt?”

The older man noted the Major’s sarcasm and leered back at him, “These scratches? I’ve faced much worse in the Kashmir jihad.”

Najaf turned away in contempt and picked up the phone by the bed. “Sir we’ve searched the place…some automatic weapons and ammunition were found. Three servants on the first floor and two in the quarters behind the house.”

“Good,” said the rough voice on the other end. “Bring them in…let’s see what happens. We can always make a police case against them on account of the weapons. Any papers or documents?”

“No sir.”

“All right Najaf you bring them in,” said Major-General Illyasi. “General Khattak is with the CM and the Governor…I’ll let him know right away.”

It was five in the evening and the shadows were lengthening out in the street as the five prisoners were thrown into the pickup truck. The others piled in behind them while a few minutes later Najaf led a second group of men out of the house. From a distance the old Baloch gardener watched the two vehicles drive past him—he had cycled down from the cantonment area to the city. It was sheer chance that the assault on the Sardar’s house took place while he had stopped to buy some fruit from a roadside hawker.

First the pickups had blocked the main entrance while the men jumped out and covered the perimeter of the house. Then they had stormed inside with their guns. Random shots and screams were heard and people gathered outside to watch the show. The gardener had been more shocked by seeing Major Najaf than by the event itself—that was something they had always expected. But a Shia officer heading a mujahid force and that too in a sensitive place like Quetta?

Maybe there was nothing to it; he shrugged while mounting his bicycle. After all he hadn’t known the Major to be very religious—he had never once visited any of the Shia mosques in Quetta or mingled with the local civilians. That was why they hadn’t approached him all this while. Besides he was new to the posting.

But this assault had a much deeper meaning. It wasn’t meant to arrest or threaten the particular Sardar but was a warning to all the Baloch. Not touching any relatives of the Sardar and refraining from trashing his property was meant to be a signal that things hadn’t reached that stage—but if they did then the mujahids would not hold back. And seeing their example the common people would have a free hand to burn and loot the property of any Baloch.

The gardener turned into the main road and stopped at the red light. A truck full of bearded men stopped beside him and waited for the signal to change. He looked across at the men—they all had automatic guns and belts of ammo around their shoulders. One of them looked down at the old man in his distinctive Baloch turban and made a menacing gesture—sliding a finger across his throat.

They needed to hold a meeting soon, realized the old man as the truck pulled away, blowing acrid smoke in his face.

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